A Few Quiet Hours (Part 1a) (F/f) Rachel’s Perspective

[joanneb1980]

A Few Quiet Hours

Rachel’s Perspective

I always knew when Jo was coming over.
She didn’t say much in her texts — didn’t have to. The message came through on a Thursday night:
“Still got that thing in the spare room?”
That was Jo-speak for I need out.
I replied:
“Always. Saturday?”
That’s just how we were.
We weren’t best friends. We didn’t talk every week, didn’t know all the little details of each other’s lives. But we had an understanding. A space. A shared secret. And for a while — especially when things in both our lives were messy — that space kept us sane.
She arrived just after eleven, Tesco bag in hand like always — bottle of wine for me, sandwich for herself. Comfortably predictable. I opened the door and leaned in the frame like I always did.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” I said.
She brushed past me, deadpan: “Missed you too.”
Her hair was tied back, sleeves rolled. I knew that look. She was here to wrestle and vanish — to take a few quiet hours and switch off from the world. I got it. I felt it too, just in different ways.
Wrestling came first — it always did. And Jo never let me win.
Not that I really wanted to. What I wanted was to feel overpowered, held down, pinned. And Jo? Jo was very good at that.
She moved like someone who’d done this a hundred times. Smooth, focused, confident. I’d charge her like some amateur and she’d flip me onto the rug like a judo champion on autopilot. Within seconds I’d be on my back, wrists pinned, breathless from the fall — and from her grin.
“You love this,” she’d say.
“Maybe,” I’d reply, teasing.
It was our dance. She always won. I always squirmed just enough to feel like I tried.
We kept going for a while — the back-and-forth, the half-serious grappling, me pretending I had a chance. I loved the way she didn’t hesitate. I think that’s what I admired about Jo the most. She wasn’t reckless. She was sure.
Eventually, we collapsed on the floor, red-faced and catching our breath.
I sat up first. “So, champ… you ready?”
She smirked. “You know I am.”
The spare room was already set. I’d laid out the sleepsack that morning, unrolled and smoothed over the bed like it belonged there. It wasn’t fancy — we bought it off eBay for less than thirty quid — but it worked. And Jo liked it. That was all that mattered.
She kicked off her socks and sweatshirt, then lay back onto the open sack with the kind of comfort that only comes from trust. That part always struck me. Jo had to let herself be vulnerable — and with me, she did.
Getting her in it took both of us. I guided her legs down to the narrow end, helped feed her arms in. She didn’t speak much. Just followed the familiar routine. Zip up, clip fastener at the collar. One last check. Then I clicked the padlock loop at the bottom of the bed — a tiny detail, but one that made her visibly relax.
“There,” I said, sitting on the bed beside her. “Nice and snug.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured.
“That’s the point.”
I liked watching her settle into it — that slow exhale when she gave in to the stillness. Most people wouldn’t understand it. But Jo didn’t do this for thrills. She did it to leave the world behind. No phone. No noise. No demands. Just stillness.
Sometimes I stayed for a while, teasing her. Today was one of those days. I brushed her hair behind her ear, lightly tickled the back of her neck just to make her twitch.
“Try to struggle,” I whispered.
She gave a weak shrug, completely useless inside the sack.
I grinned. “Not even trying.”
After a bit of playful winding-up, I lay beside her for a while. We didn’t talk much. Just shared the silence. It was strange, but nice. You don’t get many friendships like this — built on honesty, not obligation.
Eventually, I stood.
“I’ll be in the lounge. Shout into the baby monitor if you need me.”
As always, I scooped up her phone, keys, and bag on my way out. Part of the ritual. It made her feel more vulnerable — and oddly, safer. She didn’t want distractions. She wanted distance.
Back in the lounge, I made tea and read half a magazine. Time got slippery. I didn’t keep track — not exactly. But I checked on her once, peered in quietly, saw her breathing slow, eyes closed. She wasn’t asleep. She never really slept. But she looked… peaceful.
I liked seeing her that way.
Eventually, I returned. Her eyes opened as I walked in.
“Had enough?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Say please.”
She rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”
I leaned down and tapped her forehead with one finger.
“Say it.”
She hesitated. Then: “Please. Please unzip me.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Try again.”
She groaned. “Rachel, come on…”
I waited, smug. I always waited.
Finally, she gave in with that perfect mix of annoyance and surrender. “Please, Rachel, will you let me out? I’ve been good.”
“That’s better.”
I undid the clasp, slowly unzipped her, and helped her sit up as she rubbed feeling back into her arms. She looked down at the red lines the sack had left on her shoulders and upper arms, running her fingers over them like they were proof of something real.
“Thanks,” she said.
I smiled. “Same time next month?”
She smiled back. “Yeah. Let’s.”

[Rtj65]

Nice start - I like the dialogue, very short and snappy. You get the personality of both Jo and Rachel to come across really easily as well, interested to see where this goes.

BTW, I'm assuming that the gender tag is supposed to be F/F, rather than F/f?